London the fifth

Ugh, I have such a susceptible ear. Not even a week in London and I'm finding myself doing stupid things to vowels and saying "loads", er, loads. Am I bovvered? Yes, slightly.

I set off the fire alarm in the hotel this morning. Fortunately it's a silent alarm, and they come up to check how crispy you're charred before evacuating the building. So I had no idea until there was a knock at the door and a hotel guy there informing me I'd set off the alarm and darting his eyes suspiciously around my room as if he thought I was hosting an illicit cigar tasting. All he saw was me ironing a shirt. Apparently the problem was that I was ironing right under the smoke detector. Fair enough. Except that the whole room is right under the smoke detector. And the room contains an iron.

Not that it was a big deal, in the end. But it must happen all the time and I feel like it's a ploy to make people have to pay for the hotel's laundry service.

Anyway, actual things.

 Camden Markets. Yowser. It's like Kraftbomb detonated itself in the Otara flea market and all the best of Asian novelty manufacturing came to sort through the remains. It was pretty cool, but if you're not looking for anything in particular it's easy to fall prey to the lure of the shiny. Camden itself it is pretty nice, too. A mid-morning beer was drunk on the water's edge, the sun came out, and all was well.

Then down to Berkeley Square, by request from Dayna, to visit the site where the lords and ladies of romantic fiction promenade and repine, and whatever else people of that genre are inclined to do.

Self portrait! 

And finally, as I trudged back to the hotel for the final time this evening (after a dinner that involved chestnuts!), the view down the street from where I've been staying.

Paris tomorrow. I'm too exhausted to face the prospect of packing, so I'm just going to go to bed and hope for the best in the morning.